


Hold My Tongue

by my_deer_girl (my_deer_friend)



Series: Hold my tongue [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cheating, Daddy Issues, Depravity, Domination, Explicit Sexual Content, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Humiliation, I'm so sorry, Infidelity, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rare Pairings, Rough Oral Sex, Secret Sex, Sexual Frustration, So rare this might actually be the first one, everything else about this is dubious too, lams but with a different Laurens, pray for my soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25763461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_girl
Summary: At the Thanksgiving dinner - opulent, excessive and familial without being properly warm - Alex catches Henry staring at him over the green beans.Although Henry narrows one eye at being caught, he doesn’t look away. This is new. Alex searches his face for some clue as to why Henry has chosen to fixate on him. The conversation swells around them, and for just a moment no one is paying them any attention.He sees the fiery flash again - is it loathing, or fear? Revulsion? Disdain?Wait.Oh.Oh, no...Henry holds his gaze steadily, and nudges him silently towards his realisation.Oh, fuck.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Henry Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Hold my tongue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873909
Comments: 24
Kudos: 54





	Hold My Tongue

The first time he sees that fiery flash in Henry’s eyes, Alex knows it for what it is - hatred.

What else could it be, after all the stories John has fed him about his bigoted, conservative and domineering father? Alex has committed that most heinous sin of loving another man - _this_ man’s son, to boot - so of course Henry looks at him like he’s less than dirt.

John has spent weeks prepping him ahead of their first trip together to the Laurens estate - what to say, what to avoid, and which lines John is planning to cross regardless. Alex studies this material diligently, amused at the thought of how well John would do if he put this much effort into his actual classes. But John’s pre-emptive anger thrills him, so he puts up with the rest of it. Alex knows he’s going to be paraded as the first real boyfriend to be brought home from college, and he’s perfectly fine with that - honoured, even, in some perverse way, to have this lead role in John’s vanity play.

Alex has never really had a father himself, and so he doesn’t understand John’s bottomless fascination with the topic. Sure, John has been tempered by his tough upbringing - strengthened and shaped, but not broken - and Alex sees some merit in that; but _he’s_ never needed a father’s approval to achieve anything in life, so he never really grasps why John wants it so badly while pretending he doesn’t.

So, when he finally meets the mythical Henry - late on the day of their arrival, because the Senator has been _busy_ \- Henry shakes his hands and his eyes flash in that cutting way, and Alex knows immediately that John was right about everything. 

But there were things John omitted to tell him.

Like the fact that the hateful look withers away defenses he thought were solid. He has the disconcerting impression that Henry sees more of him that he willingly reveals - even though Alex is excellent, by necessity and practice, at managing his image.

And Alex didn’t realise that Henry would be quite so imposing, either. Although he seems mild and benign, Henry is the kind of person who immediately commands any room he walks into, and Alex watches with interest (as well as a considerable amusement) as John metamorphoses into a parallel version of himself, one whose back is a little straighter and whose jaw is held in a defiant line, and who says ‘sir’ and ‘father’ in a way that is completely unironic. 

Alex plays his part. He behaves himself perfectly - manners, John has stressed, are paramount - but he reclaims some power when he looks Henry defiantly in the eye as he takes John’s hand, and turns around just far enough so that he can see that Henry’s watching as he presses a kiss to John’s cheek. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the sneer that Henry quickly suppresses.

Alex puts a triumphant swing in his hips when they leave. There’s a simple joy in baiting bigots.

***

He has a whole week of holiday to get through, mandated by John to be free of any and all work, and not a single other potent distraction. It’s a recipe for disaster. At least this dynamic with Henry is _interesting,_ because if not for that, Alex would be driven right out of his mind.

Because Alex knows himself, he _dreads_ the week ahead. The reason is painfully simple - there’s an itchy, constant need just below Alex’s skin that no amount of John can properly quench; John, who is so sweet and tender and kind and desperately unfulfilling in bed. 

It’s endlessly frustrating that the world has given him a partner who’s perfect in every way but _this_. On rare occasions, John will spill his poorly-checked temper over into the bedroom - and oh, those are the nights when Alex sleeps the soundest. It’s just a pity that John always feels so guilty about it afterwards, despite endless assurances that Alex loves it when things get a little rough and out of control. He supposes he should feel lucky that John cares so much about his wellness and consent. It’s scant comfort.

He has been learning to live with this itch that John so rarely scratches by tempering his passions with work and exercise and socialising. It still constantly nags him, this background hum of his life, but it’s manageable if he drowns it in activity. For the sake of everything else he has going for him with John, he avoids the easiest solution and keeps his hands to himself - but that doesn’t mean it’s not _hard_ , and made ten times worse when his reliable distractions are five states away.

So Alex is beyond delighted when John’s beastly side comes out that first night, aggravated no doubt by the hundreds of microaggressions he absorbs just for being back home. John pounds him into the mattress in the guest room and growls at him not to be quiet. 

Alex is more than willing to participate in this petty vengeance. He puts on a good show. There’s no way that everyone in the house doesn’t hear them and know exactly what they’re doing. Afterwards, he falls into a sated sleep that carries him all the way through to the next morning.

***

Henry is scarce in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. The only times they see him are when the whole family sits down together for breakfast, at the same time every morning. At first it’s a novelty that Alex finds condescending and old-fashioned, but as the days pass, he starts looking forward to it as a rare source of genuine entertainment. 

Henry spends most of the time hidden behind an honest-to-god printed newspaper. The siblings chatter away about inconsequential things, but Alex observes Henry with a sort of sneering admiration. Even hidden behind the sheets of paper, he’s a palpable presence. He occasionally interrupts the table conversation with a quote or an opinion on what he’s reading, and the Laurens children - even John - quieten down each time to let him speak. Alex minds his manners, too fascinated by observing Henry’s quiet authority over his family to think of creative ways to challenge it.

When Henry catches Alex studying him, Alex’s instinct is to look away - but sometimes he dares to meet that gaze, always simmering below the surface, and he throws back his own steely defiance. 

Sometimes it’s even Henry who looks away first.

***

Besides breakfast, they’re left to their own devices. There are so many rooms in the house that it’s easy to get lost or to find a quiet, private spot. Alex and John lounge around during the day - just the two of them or in some combination with John’s siblings, take walks through the extensive grounds, order takeout for supper, play Monopoly or silly fighting games on Jemmy’s XBox and go to bed early. It’s domestic and soft and excruciating. 

***

Alex sees Henry again on the fourth day. 

Alex and John have curled up in one of the several sitting rooms and are burning through their Netflix backlog while Alex slowly goes mad with boredom and frustration. John hasn’t fucked him again after that first night. He itches all over. When John finally dozes off, Alex slips out from under the blanket, tucks it back in, and goes exploring - in half a mind to find a bathroom and take care of things himself.

He avoids rooms where he hears other voices, and walks for what feels like miles along thick cream carpets and past oil paintings and prints hung on the walls. He rounds a corner into a little atrium, perfectly decorated like all the other spaces in this plush, hollow house, and sees a dark, heavy wooden door. It’s ajar. He peeks in.

The room is dimly lit, and looks to be a study of some kind. The walls are covered with bookshelves - or perhaps book _cabinets_ is more accurate, since most of them have sturdy glass doors. He realises these must be antique books, and there’s no way he can resist taking a look.

He is staring up at the shelf of original Roman-Dutch legal texts when a voice says, “Alexander.” He spins in alarm. Henry is at the door - gazing at him with that flash of hate he just can’t seem to suppress, though he hides it well in his voice. “Can I help you with something?”

“Sorry,” he says - even though Alex _never_ says sorry. There’s something about Henry that seems to demand it. “I was bored. I didn’t touch anything.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me Jack is being a poor host.”

“No,” Alex says, feeling defensive on John’s behalf, even though, yes, John isn’t really doing much to assuage his boredom - or his other needs.

“If he’s not taking good care of you,” Henry says, half amused and half menacing, “Then I’ll have to do it.”

Oh boy. Alex doesn’t want to spend one second more alone with Henry and his hateful gaze than he has to. He laughs awkwardly, but Henry is blocking the door so he can’t just flee. “You’re very busy, I’m sure,” Alex says with false concern. “I should get back to John.” He inches towards the door, indicating that he wants to leave.

Henry steps back to make way, but just as Alex is level with him, Henry says softly, “You don’t have to go.”

“We’re watching a movie,” Alex says weakly.

Henry chuckles as he sees right through him. “The atheneum is a good place for quiet, and privacy. Feel free to come here if you’d like. And you may, of course, touch anything that strikes your fancy. Just use those gloves there.” He waves into the room, but Alex doesn’t want to risk taking his eyes off Henry.

He tries not to squirm as he mutters a quiet, “Um, thanks,” and slips away, doing his best to retrace his steps. He finds the right room and slips back under the blanket with John, who’s still fast asleep - which is a good thing, because Alex isn’t able to explain, even to himself, why his heart is racing.

***

At the Thanksgiving dinner - opulent, excessive and familial without being properly warm - Alex catches Henry staring at him over the green beans.

Although Henry narrows one eye at being caught, he doesn’t look away. This is new. It’s almost like Henry’s the one fighting to keep eye contact this time. Alex searches his face for some clue as to why Henry has chosen to fixate on him. The conversation swells around them, and for just a moment no one is paying them any attention, so he takes the time to study this.

He sees the fiery flash again. He has a chance to examine it now, to tease out the nuance of this hate - is it loathing, or fear, or revulsion, or disdain? 

He digs deeper - and Henry allows it. 

Yes, it’s fire and flame, all right. Intense. Scalding. But-- It’s not really _hatred_ , he realises, when he examines the texture of the gaze and the lines around the piercing eyes and the flick of one eyebrow.

Alex looks deeper.

 _Oh_.

Henry holds steady, and nudges him silently further.

Oh _fuck_.

Alex bursts up onto his feet before he knows what he’s doing, fork clattering to the ground. He mumbles an incoherent apology and dashes from the room before everyone can see the crimson burn on his cheeks. He flees to the nearest bathroom, shuts the door and leans heavily on it. His eyes are wide when he sees his reflection in the mirror.

He doesn’t doubt what he saw - even though it’s _insanity,_ the most ludicrous thing he’s ever imagined, so subtle no one else could possibly have seen it - because Henry acknowledged the moment Alex realised it, and he didn’t flinch.

Henry fucking Laurens was looking at him like he wants to _devour_ him. Like he wants to push Alex down over the dinner table and--

Good _god!_

Alex digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. His stomach lurches dangerously. John’s own father!

 _John_. 

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t just leave - but how can he even begin to pretend this hasn’t changed everything?

The itch redoubles, and it starts to burn.

How can this _possibly_ be real?

And why is there a reckless, dangerous heat curling up in his belly?

***

He spends five minutes in the bathroom running water over his face to cool his flush, then goes back to the table as though the whole world isn’t upside down, and gets away with only one puzzled look from John as he chokes down the rest of his dinner. 

They all retire to a sitting room with a roaring fire and fresh bottles of wine. Alex doesn’t drink a drop of it. John snuggles up close to him as he tells impressive and embellished stories about their college adventures while he rubs intent lines on Alex’s thigh with his thumb. Alex has forgotten they’re meant to be putting on this show.

He doesn’t pick up a word of the conversation because he needs to devote the entirety of his attention to ignoring Henry. Alex doesn’t dare to look at him, but he feels that burning gaze digging in, and the combination of the weighty look with John’s gentle touch is the most skin-crawling and nauseating and erotic thing he’s ever felt. In desperation, he shifts a stray cushion surreptitiously onto his lap, but he _knows_ that Henry sees.

Some microscopic part of him actually preens at that thought.

He’s definitely going to hell.

After what feels like hours of this perfectly balanced torture, Henry finally calls an end to the evening. 

“Another excellent holiday, if I do say so, and I’d like to thank all of you for making the time to be here. But it’s getting late, and I think it’s time we all retired,” he says. “Off to bed, now, girls. Boys. Alexander.” 

Henry puts so much suggestion - so much _command_ \- in his own name that he feels like both of them have been stripped naked right there. Astoundingly, no one else seems to notice. John yawns, stands and stretches out his hand.

“Come along,” he says with a mellow smile.

But Alex doesn’t _want_ mellow. If he was itching before, he’s burning now, every inch of his body, inside and out. He can’t think of any other way to dispel this madness. He wants-- No, he _needs_ to be torn apart, and John’s just not going to do it.

He figures there must be a million parallel realities where he doesn’t make this stupid decision. Where he takes John’s hand, slips into bed next to his adoring boyfriend, holds on tight against the burning and convinces himself he’s misinterpreted everything. And even some where he acknowledges what he’s seen but knows - _obviously_ \- that he could never act on it in a million years.

But there’s one reality where he _does_ make the stupid decision, and it’s this one.

“I’ll be up in a bit,” he says, dismissing the proffered hand and looking John right in the eye as though he isn’t seriously considering committing the most heinous kind of infidelity. His voice is remarkably steady. “Not ready to sleep yet.”

He hates himself instantly, but even that is not incentive enough to abort.

“Suit yourself,” John shrugs fondly, and leaves. Alex really doesn’t deserve him, such a sweet and trusting boy.

Henry’s gone, too, but Alex has no doubt about where he’ll find him.

***

He stares at the dark, heavy wooden door. 

He should just go to bed. He doesn’t want this. He wants it more than anything. 

He’s never been good at saying no to himself, he acknowledges, as his heart thuds deafeningly in his ears.

He puts his hand on the doorknob. The door opens. He steps inside. 

The room is empty.

Oh.

He feels a cold, clarifying shock of embarrassment and relief as he realises he’s made a _huge_ mistake. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and shakes his head. What was he thinking? That Henry fucking Laurens was making some sort of pass at him? Absurd. That he was actually about to cheat on John with his own _father_?

When he spells it out like that, it’s ludicrous. He’s a moron. He actually laughs out loud at himself, disparaging and rueful.

But his laugh chokes off when he hears a soft tread behind him, followed by the whispered click of the door closing. 

The hot flush of shame and arousal ignites again; it hasn’t gone far.

He doesn’t - can’t - turn around.

Henry steps up close behind him, not touching but close enough that Alex can _feel_ him through every inch of skin on his back.

“Hmm,” is all Henry says, but manages to convey _I knew you’d understand_ and _Of course you’d be here_ and _I’m happy to see you_. There’s a deprecating note in there, too, like he’s amused. Like this is a joke.

Alex belatedly decides he needs to make a pretense at reluctance, childish though it is. “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers without turning around.

“Then why are you?”

That’s a great question, and Alex has no answer. He hunches up his shoulders and clenches his hands. He _wants_ to leave. It’s just that he needs to stay. 

Henry is almost completely silent, but his presence looms and Alex can taste the danger beaming off him. He knows Henry is studying him - like a wolf, or a butcher. But Alex is caught in his net, and the harder he tries to wriggle free, the more he gets tangled up. 

He _needs_ to leave. 

But he wants to stay.

Henry’s fingers brush the back of his right fist and his hand unclenches, as if on command.

“The rules are simple,” Henry says, cool and quiet. “You’ll do as I say, and you won’t breathe a word.”

Alex shudders. He needs to assert some sort of control over this rapidly disintegrating situation. “I’m not like your children. You can’t boss me around.”

“Is that so?” Henry’s voice is quiet, right by his ear, but Alex feels the words ringing in the air. The fingers on the back of his hand trace delicately up the inside of his wrist. The gesture is laden with unspoken threat - and promise.

“If I tell anyone, this would destroy you,” Alex says through his tight throat. 

“Perhaps,” Henry says, unconcerned. “But men like me have weathered worse than this, even if you’re believed. _Your_ prospects are much more fragile. So perhaps you should concern yourself about what I could do to you instead, if this was revealed - and what this would do to Jack.”

Alex swallows, because of course Henry is right - they’re oddly safe in this mutual bond of self-destruction - but also because these words are starting a strange, cold tingle at the base of his spine. It is both fear and something far from it. Henry presses his fingers lightly against the racing pulse in his wrist and breathes a knowing laugh down the back of his neck. 

Alex wants to say something sharp and clever, but words don’t materialise in his brain.

They stand exactly like this for too long - Henry endlessly patient, Alex because he is utterly frozen between several impossible choices.

Eventually, Henry breaks the silence, but not the contact with Alex’s wrist. “I can take care of you, but the door is not locked, boy. You’re not being forced to stay. Perhaps, if you’re so uncertain, you should go and reconsider--”

“No!” Alex interrupts, the choked word leaping out before he can stop himself. Henry’s just touching his _wrist_ and it’s rendering him utterly senseless. For a second he wishes the door _was_ locked so that, when he’s hauled before a jury of his peers, he can convincingly claim that he was coerced into staying against his wishes. But the only thing Henry forces him to do is to decide. And he does. “Don’t send me away. Please.” He’s never begged in his life. But he’s begging now.

The other hand moves. It ghosts over his shoulder and along his collarbone and comes to rest lightly across his throat. There’s barely any pressure, but just the menace and the authority in the gesture makes him shiver and swallow hard. Pretend as he may like, he has no power here - except the power to leave.

Henry leans closer, still not pressing against him. “Jack always did have such good taste,” he murmurs, like this isn’t the crudest taunt he could possibly make - and no, Alex refuses to acknowledge the pulse of arousal at the illicit thought that John is in this house, just a few rooms away.

He’s trembling. Henry’s thumb presses into the pulsing vein just below his jaw and he knows there’s no hiding how he really feels.

“Well? Are you going to behave?”

 _No, never, he’ll not submit to something this perverse and degrading._ “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

 _Fuck you. How dare you._ “Sir,” he chokes out.

“Good.”

Henry tightens both of his hands just a little - wrist and throat - and finally steps forward to press himself against Alex’s back. Alex lets out a shuddering breath as he’s pulled taut between all these opposing forces. He’s never been this hard from no contact at all, and the thought of how easily Henry manages it shames him to his core - but that just makes his cock throb even more insistently.

This close, Alex catches Henry’s scent. Underneath the expensive cologne there’s a deep masculine smell of leather and cigar smoke. And below that, an echo of John. Alex’s heart thuds heavily with guilt. He should just say _stop_ and this nightmare will be over. 

He doesn’t.

Instead, against all good judgement, he leans back into Henry’s chest, hot and solid. Then he feels the firm press of Henry’s arousal against his ass, and even after all this, he’s stunned - a fresh, unmistakable confirmation that he really is in a divine hell of his own design. But there’s a weird pride there too, that he’s managed to bring Henry to this state. Unable to resist, he grinds back.

“Don’t,” Henry orders, sliding his hand further up against Alex’s throat so that his chin tilts back. Henry’s thumb runs along his jawline, almost tenderly. “Take your shirt off.”

Alex has never willingly submitted to orders before, but there’s a note here that demands absolute obedience - and the twin echoes of what might happen if he complies, or if he defies. There’s only one path that leads him to what he so desperately needs. 

He’s wearing a nice button-down in honour of the family dinner, but he undoes the top button, tugs it off over his head and lets it fall to the floor without a second thought. As he exposes his skin to the cool air, Alex desperately hunts for something other than his overflowing lust to explain his actions. Insanity, maybe. Or perhaps, despite his misgivings on the subject, he might have turned out normal - certainly more normal that this! - if he hadn’t been abandoned by his father at such a young age. Is that what this is? Is he really so desperate for paternal approval that he’s prepared to stoop so low?

The unsavoury thought melts away as Henry’s warm hands touch his cooling skin, bringing his temperature right back up again. Henry stays behind him, but there’s something tender, even reverential in the careful way he maps the contours of Alex’s body - not just his most tender places, but also the crest of his shoulder, the ridges of his rib cage, the curve of his lower spine.

He’s trembling all over now. It’s getting to be too much. He’s so hard he’s hurting and no one has even touched his cock yet.

“Please,” he whispers, not really sure what he’s asking for.

Henry tsks. “Impatient boy.” But his tracing hands drift lower - one slides under Alex’s waistband and settles on his left hip, while the other glides over the curve of his buttocks and across the top of his thigh. The touch is too gentle and Alex groans in frustration. Henry huffs at him, amused.

There’s one thing Alex hasn’t tried yet. His hands have been hanging limply at his sides, but now he shoots one out and plants it on top of Henry’s right hand, which is caressing the side of his thigh. He drags it up to where his cock is straining against the front of his pants and pushes it down firmly. 

Henry hums in approval. “Careful now,” he murmurs, and Alex feels the fingers tightening around him, “You’re inching dangerously close to misbehaving.”

And _oh_ , Alex realises in a flash of clarity, Henry _wants_ him to act out, just enough to give him a reason to escalate.

So he tilts his head back against Henry’s shoulder, exposing the curve of his neck. “Then touch me like you mean it,” he growls.

The fingers at his groin tighten suddenly and painfully, and Alex yelps. 

“Loud, bossy, obnoxious - didn’t your father teach you any manners?” 

Alex squirms and moans in response, as the sensation in his cock oscillates on the line of pain and pleasure. Henry squeezes tighter by degrees, and holds him in place with a bruising grip on his hip, until Alex pushes up on his toes to try to relieve the pressure. “I’m sorry!” he chokes out. “Please!”

Henry hums in disapproval.

“ _Sir!_ I’m sorry, sir!”

That must be the magic word. The pressure relents. “Well, I guess it’s never too late to learn,” Henry says. “But I think you’ve made enough noise already. Take the rest of that off and get on your knees.”

Alex doesn’t pause to think about it. He slides off his pants and underwear, and his rock-hard cock springs free. Henry didn’t give him permission to turn around, so he doesn’t. Feeling exposed and ashamed - which only stokes the burning in his abdomen - he sinks down to his knees. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he grips the tops of his thighs, and waits.

Henry paces around him, and for the first time since the door closed behind them, Alex gets sight of him. From down here, Henry looks even more stern, imposing, aroused but utterly composed and in control. Alex briefly imagines the Laurens children looking up at their father from this angle, and this should be a revolting thought in this context, but the note of that vulnerability makes his chest flush. He never had a father to look up to and-- No! This is really not the time to let his mind wander down that dark path.

Henry stops in front of him. Alex is burning for contact, and Henry is close enough that Alex bites his lip, leans forward and dares to rub his cheek against the firm thigh.

Henry’s hand comes down to stroke his hair. “My, you are a little wanton, aren’t you?” 

Alex whimpers in agreement. “I just need…” But he doesn’t know what.

“Your mistake, Alexander,” Henry says in a sympathetic tone, “Is that you’re too quick to chase easy pleasure instead of working for what you really want. Isn’t that right?” Henry doesn’t wait for a response. “But you’re young. You’ll learn eventually, like I did, to pluck only the ripest fruits.” He withdraws his hand, but only to reach for his fly.

Alex fixates on the sight in front of him, as Henry undoes his pants and pulls himself free. He’d had an inkling before, when he’d pushed back against him, but this really is an impressive shaft. He swallows in heavy anticipation.

“Open your mouth,” Henry commands, and Alex’s jaw drops even before he’s finished speaking. “That’s a good boy.” He steps closer, and the hand that was stroking his hair now tightens around a handful of it. The other hand comes to rest on the curve of his jaw, tilting his head up just a little, putting him at the perfect angle. One of the fingers runs over his bottom lip. “Now, I’m sure you know what to do, but you leave the work to me this time, understand?”

Alex gives a tiny nod against the hands holding his head still, even though he wants to ask - what do you mean, _this_ time? 

Then Henry nudges his cockhead past Alex’s open lips, and Alex is overcome, once again, by the thought that this is insane and unreal and that he cannot work out how he got to be right here - naked on his knees in a dark library, his head held in place while his boyfriend’s father pushes his stiff shaft slowly but inexorably into his mouth and up against the back of his throat.

Oh god, John. Don’t think about John. Henry’s smell is deeper, muskier, but there’s just a note of John down here too. Fuck! This shouldn’t be turning him on _more!_

Henry holds himself still for a moment as he just nudges the back of Alex’s throat, then pulls out most of the way. Pushes in again, perfectly steady. Out. In. Sets a slow but relentless pace. Alex tries to keep his breathing even, but he’s groaning through a bonfire of intense arousal and his hands are gripping his thighs painfully. He needs to be touched _so badly_ that he thinks he might faint, but he has no idea what the repercussions would be if he dares to stroke himself - so he musters new depths of willpower to keep his hands firmly in place, and focuses instead on snatching air as he allows Henry fuck into his mouth. 

Then, once Alex is lulled into a trance and without any warning, Henry pushes in and doesn’t stop at the entrance of Alex’s throat - and Alex stops thinking because he needs all his focus just to stop himself from gagging fiercely. He chokes a little and sucks air through his nose, but he manages to keep his throat relaxed enough that Henry can push in further, further, until he is in all the way to the root. And then Alex does gag a little, but he stubbornly refuses to budge, even as his eyes tear up.

“Oh, _very_ good,” Henry murmurs as he pulls back. Finally, there’s a crack in his previously-steady voice, but Alex is more affected by the genuine note of praise. Something tightens in his chest that isn’t arousal. He lifts his eyes up and sees Henry looking down at him. Henry’s thumb wipes away a stray tear. “You’re doing so well, Alexander. I think it’s almost time for your reward. But first, I think you can handle just a little more.”

The only warning he gets about what _more_ could mean is a sudden sharp pull on his hair as Henry thrusts his cock back down his throat. The care and control are gone now. Alex gags violently at the first intrusion, spit running out of the corner of his mouth. His pained choking doesn’t deter Henry, though, who merely seats his hands more firmly and maintains his punishing pace. The hand on his jaw now drifts down to stroke the front of his throat, and Alex feels the shocking, incongruous sensation of Henry pressing on his windpipe from both inside and out.

He’s an utter mess, a ruin of emotion. He cries openly, can’t stop it, doesn’t want to - but the tears are not caused by the shame or the agony of allowing himself to be violated like this. He is overcome by how perfect it feels to surrender completely.

Henry is grunting now, a frenetic sound more in keeping with his rough thrusts than his previously fatherly demeanour. A moment later, he pulls Alex down as far as he can go and lets out a feral growl. Alex feels the cock pulse in his mouth but he needs to focus, focus, focus on swallowing and breathing and not choking on Henry’s come. Henry holds him there through his aftershocks. When he finally pulls out, Alex sags back on his heels, panting and drooling. 

He sees that he’s left telltale handprints on his own thighs from where he’s gripped them so hard. He can’t begin to think how he’ll explain those to John.

He distantly registers as Henry tucks himself back in - Henry, who’s still fully clothed, while Alex is kneeling on the ground, naked and raw and still so _fucking_ hard.

“I’m very impressed, Alexander. I can see why Jack is so fond of you.” Alex thinks he can’t possibly have any more blood left to burn, but his cheeks flush hot and red again in an instant. “Now. I think you’ve earned your reward.”

Alex lets out a choked sob. Henry walks up to him again, but this time he taps the inside of Alex’s knee with his foot. Alex immediately understands and shifts his knees wider apart, until he feels the pull down the insides of his thighs. He waits for further instructions, feeling pathetically small and utterly comforted at the same time.

Henry chuckles indulgently. “Well, go on! I did all the hard work just now, the least you can do is take care of yourself.”

Henry leans back casually against one of the cabinets and stares at him with that red-hot gaze as Alex takes himself in hand. It almost hurts to touch himself, given how engorged he is, and it compounds with the embarrassment of Henry watching him into a unique and potent cocktail of pain and shame and pleasure. He reclaims a little fragment of his dignity by playing up the performance and moaning expressively - though very soon he gives up the act entirely in favour of genuine sounds of pleasure. Then he’s only able to pant and grunt and jerk his hand back and forth. He climbs the unstoppable rise, then he locks eyes with Henry and comes with a shuddering cry. It’s the best orgasm of his life. No contest.

It takes him a moment to regain his bearings.

Henry is standing next to him. He reaches down and ruffles Alex’s hair in a way that seems almost fond. Again Alex notes the difference in their states. Henry is composed and unruffled - he could probably step out in public if he needed to - while Alex is an absolute disaster of sweat and spit and come and tears; naked; dishevelled; shivering with adrenaline and release.

“I trust you know your way back?” Henry asks, cool as anything, as though he isn’t suggesting that Alex should run along and climb into bed with his own son.

Alex nods, even though he has no idea how he can do any of that without being found out, given the state he’s in.

“A pity you boys are leaving again so soon. I’ll speak to Jack about flying you two down for Christmas.” Henry hums thoughtfully at that, then leaves without further ceremony. The door clicks softly closed behind him.

And oh, John will not like that - but Alex is going to have to find a way to talk him into it. Because - fuck! - he doesn’t feel the burn on his skin anymore. Doesn’t even feel the subliminal itch. His mind is silent. He’s going to sleep for a week. 

Alex feels like he’s downed a vial of poison and discovered that it’s cured all his ills. 

He needs more.

**Author's Note:**

> Folks, I don't even know. 
> 
> 10% of the credit/blame for this goes to That_Would_Be_Enough for being in the right place at the right time to encourage this depravity.
> 
> Should you leave a comment?? I don't know!!
> 
> Yell at me in person on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend


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